


aurora

by starblessed



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/M, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 13:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17808533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: In the aftermath of Volterra, Francesco searches for a reprieve from the horrors, and finds Novella Foscari.





	aurora

**Author's Note:**

> so I really have no idea if the Giuliano/Novella wedding plan was public knowledge --- but I don’t think it’s inconceivable that Francesco would have known about that part of the plan and still think he was manipulated into marrying her. It didn’t sound like the whole scheme was being kept on the down-low?? but there’s an equal chance he had no idea, so who knows. it's fanfic, speculation is a privilege.
> 
> Written as a Tumblr prompt, for [Aki_of_Eyluvial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aki_of_Eyluvial/pseuds/Aki_of_Eyluvial)! My tumblr is [roseluminated](http://roseluminated.tumblr.com/), and I'm currently accepting Medici prompts!

The road into Volterra is paved with breathless urgency. The road out is cracked and broken, ground giving way beneath the tread of too-heavy feet. It is not a victory. The skies .

Francesco pulls his hood further over his face, shielding himself from the furious onslaught of wind. It does not rain, but the very air around him seems to threaten it — one of those merciless summer storms which beat down for a quarter hour and leave rivers of mud and devastation in their wake. Dark clouds loom overhead, writhing like the heavens are eager to open their wrath upon them.

He cannot blame them; in fact, he almost wishes they would. Nothing can wash away the sins of Volterra, but rain might come close. It would at least be a distraction from the montage of horror coursing through his mind. Francesco had never seen a battlefield before. He has never taken a man’s life. He had seen death, of course, gazed down upon more lifeless bodies than he could count… but today’s casualties, grouped in one place, in such condition, overwhelmed even his hardened sensibilities. It was a bloodbath. The tragedy of Volterra is a weight on his shoulders, though the orders were not his. Had his uncle not urged war, had Francesco himself been a little shrewder…

But he cannot do that, for he will tear himself apart. It is not his fault. He does not need to live with the guilt… only the burden of the aftermath.

Lorenzo de Medici rides at his side, face slack, eyes distant. His hands cling loosely to the reins; it’s a wonder the relentless winds have not knocked him from his shadow. Ahead of them both, in the thick of the army, Giuliano de Medici rides without a cloak or armor, heedless of the oncoming gale battering his bare shoulders and torso. If he feels it, he gives no indication. Perhaps he simply doesn’t care.

“He ought to be happy,” Francesco remarks, more to himself than anyone else. Lorenzo glances over at him anyways, blinking in confusion. Francesco sees the need to clarify, only to avoid talking to himself. “Rumor has it, he’s got a bride waiting for him. Your sister's friend... Signorina Foscari, wasn’t it? Novella Foscari.”

Understanding dawns on Lorenzo’s face, and he is quick to shake his head. Beneath the shelter of his hood, a shadowed gaze drifts back to Giuliano, lingering on his unbowed frame for a moment. Francesco recognizes a flash of worry in the older brother’s eyes --- too familiar, having seen it in Guglielmo’s more than once --- before his gaze pulls away. “You’ve been misinformed. My brother has no intention of wedding the Foscari girl… in fact, he’s quite adamant against her.”

A golden mirage still dwells in the back of Francesco’s mind, so vivid as to be almost tangible. The depthless pools of those wide blue eyes even now threaten to drown him. Freckles scatter like stars across the bridge of a turned-up nose, and bright curls dance and blaze around her like an open flame. He recalls every last detail of Novella Foscari --- has dwelled on her more than he’d like to admit. That any man could be against her is utterly _incomprehensible._

Novella is striking… and, if Lorenzo is to be believed, not as engaged as society gossip would place her.

“Really?” It demands no small amount of self-restraint to force himself to sound uninterested. “What will Foscari do now, then? With that prospect pulled from the table?”

“We made an effort,” Lorenzo replies, shoulders bobbing in a broad shrug. “Wherever our alliance with the Conte stands now, it will not be solidified by a Medici union.”

Francesco expects bitterness, but can find none in his voice. Lorenzo sounds distracted, as if the dealings of Andrea Foscari are the last thing on his mind; after the events of today, they probably are. If he is grieving the loss of Novella as a sister-in-law, he gives nothing away.

With his question answered but a hundred others left in its place, Francesco’s gaze turns back to the road… falling upon Giuliano once again. Scorn bleeds into his unsettled thoughts. The younger Medici has always been careless --- of his health, his reputation, his impulses. Francesco did not know it was possible to disdain Giuliano more than he already did; he’s been proven wrong.

Not wanting to marry Novella Foscari… what’s _wrong_ with the fool?

Focusing on Novella is a reprieve from the devastation still crowding his head. She outshines the gore, the broken bodies, bloodied women and wailing orphans. She is more than a distraction. The memory of her smile numbs the still-resounding grief; she reminds him that there remains _bright, good things_ to return to.

“When will the Foscaris be returning to Venice?” he asks suddenly, snapping Lorenzo out of the haze he’d settled into. Distracted blue eyes turn on him, and it seems to take Lorenzo a moment to comprehend the question.

“Difficult to say… but I expect it will be soon.”

Florence will be revelling in their perceived victory. Francesco cannot imagine the Foscaris will have any desire to remain around to witness it, if they have no union to tie them to the city. In fact the disappointed Conte will probably be in a hurry to get home.

Unconsciously, Francesco urges his horse a bit faster.

If Lorenzo notices, he does not remark on it… which is a blessing, for Francesco would have no good answer. Giuliano, so far ahead of them both, does not seem to care at all.

* * *

 

He refuses to admit himself disheartened when the ride through Florence’s cheering crowds reveals no flash of red hair, no bright eyes in a smiling face. If he looks down at the crowd, it is only to discern his whereabouts (nothing more). No sooner has he determined they are close to home, and that few familiar figures lurk in the crowd, then he splits off from the procession. It is nauseating, and draining… what is there to celebrate about bloodshed?

By the time he stalks through the Pazzi palazzo, shedding his coat in his wake, his entire body is a bundle of nerves and sore muscles. He wants nothing more than to sleep… to lie down and block out the images reverberating through his skull, blood and red hair and things he could have done, had he been a little bolder, a little faster…

“Francesco!”

He goes still in the doorway, turning a tired face on his brother. “Forgive me, Guglielmo, I’m weary.”

“Humor me,” his brother replies, and something in his tone makes Francesco turn.

His chest seizes tight as Andrea Foscari steps out of the study… but he does not have the chance to question, to consider, before he is followed by a wide-eyes figure draped in orange and gold.

He stares at her, and Novella Foscari stares right back. Francesco hears the words his brother utters, but they barely register in his mind.

When he breaks into a grin, Novella smiles in return, and for the first time in an eternity Francesco feels the sun beat down on his head.


End file.
